


2 + 2 ≠ 7

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Football | Soccer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty boy, he says. And means it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2 + 2 ≠ 7

**Author's Note:**

> Huzzah, angsty Beville (because they make it so easy)! AU where Becks never knew what Gaz felt, and Gaz never told him. 
> 
> Thanks for looking :)

**I.**

The first time he sees him he wants to beat him. Scrawny little kid. Dark, lank hair falling like a curtain into his eyes. Awful haircut, David would have said, if he’d been brave enough. Instead he lets it slide; and the boy slides into him, a tackle clumsy as anything. David nearly pisses himself laughing. He takes the ball away and puts it into the net. Snaps his fingers, just like that, gone. The boy stares at him and David smirks, tilting his nose up and thumbing it. Awful haircut, he says, and turns to go.

The first time he sees him he wants to beat him. Charmingly boyish buck-toothed grin. Disheveled golden hair carefully slicked back. Pretty boy, Gary would have said, and he is brave enough (has always been) – but his voice catches in his throat. That’s not supposed to happen. He rushes at the boy, two feet up and two feet in; he skips away and Gary is on the ground. Wide-eyed. Beaten. He barely registers the words the boy speaks, only the gleam in his eyes. Pretty boy, he says and flips the finger, but stuffs his hand quietly into his pocket once the boy has turned away.

**II.**

Gary. The name rolls off his tongue, not necessarily unpleasant, but nothing at all interesting. They’ve drawn lots, are roommates for this away tie. At least his tackling has improved. David supposes Gary doesn’t really want to room with him, not when he’s got a little brother to take care of. And not when he calls him pretty boy all the time – he knows it winds David up, only reason he does it. Maybe if Coach Harrison wasn’t looking David would give Gary a right good kick in the arse. As it is the room is cold and he’d rather kick the heater instead. Too bad it’s not a double instead of two twins, jokes Gary. Least it’d be warmer. David rolls his eyes. That wasn’t even funny. He takes the warmer bed.

David. Not that anyone calls him that, although Gary likes it. It fits on his tongue, like a long-lost friend. Phil’s a bit annoyed with the whole roommate thing, but he understands (always does). Pretty boy, says Gary. David looks like he wants to kick him to pieces. Gary grins maddeningly, the only way he knows how. (Wishes he could be Phil sometimes – everyone likes him, David too.) The room is cold and Gary looks over at David. Too bad it’s not a double. At least it’d be warmer, he says. I wonder what it would feel like to hold your hand, he doesn’t say. He lets David take the warmer bed. Pretty boy, and means it.

**III.**

It’s the FA Youth Cup Final. David laces up his boots and watches Gary pulling on the armband. His heart twinges – jealousy, perhaps? annoyance? fear? – he shoulders past on his way out. He plays like the devil on the pitch, like a Red Devil. Gary would be proud, wouldn’t he, thinks David cynically. Only one love in his life and that’s United. Nutter, he says to Gary as he runs past. Pretty boy, he hears the familiar sting. Doesn’t matter. They win. David collapse to his knees, punching his hands in the air in triumph. He’s vaguely aware that Gary has come and is hugging him tight, shouting nothings into his ear, but David doesn’t care. He’s won. He takes the cup from Ryan and lifts it high, the widest, dorkiest smile on his face that’s ever been seen. It’s the best feeling in the world. 

It’s the FA Youth Cup Final. Gary pulls on the armband and watches David lace up his boots. His heart twinges – infatuation? helplessness? fear? – David shoulders past him on the way out. Gary plays like a Devil, but then he always does, doesn’t he, heart on his sleeve. (Except when David runs past, then he shouts pretty boy and tucks his heart back inside.) He used to think he loved only one thing in his life. But they win. Gary runs, sprints down the pitch, knowing this will be his only chance. Knowing he must do this now because David will be too caught up in the moment to care. He reaches his arms round, pulls him close, hugs him tight. He shouts I love you because he knows David will not hear. And then he lets go. Just once, pretty boy. Just once. He pumps the trophy into the sky, giddy with a hundred different emotions. Then to Ryan, then to David. Gary watches the widest, dorkiest smile on his face that he’s ever seen. It’s the best feeling in the world.

**IV.**

Fame. Fashion. Future. The bright lights of Spain beckon, the dark red of Manchester he must leave behind. He exits the gaffer’s office, hands in pockets. Charmingly boyish smile replaced by a crease of resignation. He looks up and sees Gary loitering in the corridor, nothing better to do. I’m leaving, says David, as if Gary would care. Gary punches him in the face.

Family. Passion. Past. The dressing room bench of Old Trafford will always call him home. But it’s not himself Gary is worried about. Still scrawny, better haircut; he brushes his dark hair out of his eyes. He loiters in the corridor for no reason and every reason. David comes out. I’m leaving, he says, and Gary does care. He punches David in the face.

At last they understand each other.

David staggers back, hand on chin, skin broken, bleeding red (white, soon). Gary looks down at the blood on his hands (red, always). His eyes burn with defiance, hunger, love – but not, David realizes, for United. His voice is tremulous. I don’t want you to go. Not just for United. Please stay. Not for the past fifteen years. Pretty boy, please stay.

David opens his mouth. His voice catches in his throat. There are so many things to say. I don’t want to leave. I am sorry. I love you. 

He says goodbye. Snaps his fingers, just like that, gone.


End file.
